


It’s like a love letter, but never sent.

by lilija_the_red



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: I Should Know, M/M, One-Sided Attraction, Unrequited Love, alcohol mention, canon possible, modern possible, who knows - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-05
Updated: 2015-09-05
Packaged: 2018-04-19 06:37:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 644
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4736234
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lilija_the_red/pseuds/lilija_the_red
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s like a love letter, but never sent.<br/>It’s paint on paper, lines over lines, colours clashing, forming a face. Light and Shadow. Shadow and Light.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It’s like a love letter, but never sent.

**Author's Note:**

> Feel free to comment! :)

It’s like a love letter, but never sent.

It’s paint on paper, lines over lines, colours clashing, forming a face. Light and Shadow. Shadow and Light. Everything captured , fighting, moving, dancing.

It’s like a love letter, but never sent.

Devotion is guiding the paintbrush, long, careful strokes, leaving a line behind on the canvas. A mark. Something magical’s lingering within. Something pure.

It’s devotion, the artist feels. Devotion to the art, but most importantly, devotion to one man and one man only. To a beauty, made by powers he has never believed in but cannot deny anymore, can he? Devotion, not to a cause, not to a world, not to a future, but devotion never the less.

And so he guides the paintbrush over the place. He is caressing the paper. Loving movements, careful but precise, like it was not a canvas, but a body. The paintbrushes are his fingers, the colour his love.

And sometimes, sometimes in the dark of this almost lit room, with the canvas in front, a snide smile staring down at him, he dares to dream. To dream of touching the marble skin, tracing the line of those limbs, following the delicate curve of his spine. He dreams of little purple bruises, forming on white pure skin after his lips have left it. To mark this perfect god. He dreams of a halo spreading from the golden hair; how it would feel in his hand when he would card his fingers through it, how it would feel to grip on it, how it would feel to pull at it just so slightly, just to get him closer. Only a little closer. Skin on skin. So close… So he dreams of forbidden red lips and of the sensation they would leave behind on his skin. He shivers at the very thought of it, dipping the paintprush into the paint.

And sometimes in the dark lonliness of his room,when he’s all alone, only the canvas and paint to keep him company, he dares to dream. Dreaming of the devine entity he creates, night after night, to come to life and step down to him.

No, he thinks. Not create. Recreate, copy, that is what he does. Because the marvelous statue is reality.

But the touch is not. Never is and will never be.

Because this darkness is where he belongs. He, the artist. The dublicator. The thief. Behind the canvas, paint and brush his only companions, the darkness his friend, the liquor his haven.

Yes, he thinks, as he draws the last line of an almost too perfect face. Yes, this is where he belongs. The sigh escaping his lips is caught by the bottle lifted up.

\- The servant fails to capture the beauty and remains at the feet of the master -

A bitter smile. Another sip of liquor. Yes, that’s how it is supposed to be.

 

He stares at the now completed painting. He sees the flaws. Sees the errors in the lines. His failures. His inability to capture something so devine. Something, not made to capture to recreate to cage in. But he’ll try it again. Over and over again. He knows it. The man stops in his movements, hesitates before scribbling a small capital "R" into the corner. But it has to be done.

It’s a love letter but never sent. But it’s a love letter never the less.

 

It goes to the corner aligned with the others. So many others of the same kind, the same motive, the same devotion present in the lines and colours - the same smile staring down at him. Mocking him. Silent laughter ringing in the man’s ear, a laughter which cannot be drenched out, cannot be drowned. But yet again, he’d give anything to even hear this mockery directly shot towards him. For it would be enough to keep a life.


End file.
